Another Time Another Place
by Hsuan
Summary: Shuichi is a tiny bitter bomb of a broke aspiring writing. Eiri is an international pop icon with a mega-billion dollar contract. Go figure. [AU]
1. Default Chapter

Ever get that feeling where it seems like everyone passing you by on the street is laughing at you under their breath? That pretentious snicker that says 'you have pigeon shit in your hair,' or 'you've got a big **kick me **sign taped to your ass,' or 'dude, your fly is open.'

Yah? Me too. I hate the city.

Granted, the city has its ups. Like the convenience. It's true what they say about the city never sleeping. Every building has a blaring neon WE'RE OPEN TWENTY FOUR SEVEN mounted on the side. You know, for the people who need to get their nails done at three in the morning. And as far as aesthetic purposes and inspiration sources, the city does provide an adequate amount. A walk down the shady block will yield a handful of disturbing conversations and draft ideas for an award winning science fiction thriller. There are some seriously freaky people in the city.

Of course there is also the inescapable fact that if you desire even a million in one shot at becoming somebody, especially as a creative professional, you _have_ to live in the city. It comes with the package. Basically, live in the city or perish.

Not that I had a choice to begin with. I'm sort of disowned by my entire family and excommunicated from... oh, everyone I know. Yah, being gay might be fashionable and trendy in other parts of the world, but not in my town. Coming out was probably one of the smartest ideas I've had next to sticking my hamster in the microwave and shaving my head. Would not recommend either of the above. I pretty much had to move to a place where nobody knew who I was and nobody cared who I was. Figured the city was my best bet.

That and I'm a writer. What better way to kick off my career than to move to the city, rent a little studio above the dry cleaners, and write my little stories on my little laptop by my little window. Very entrepreneur. Very adventurous. Very Sex and the City. Very poor starving artist trying to list every single purchase as a deductible on my tax form. Not to mention cutting and collecting coupons for everything and anything imaginable. It's very time consuming, and when one has several over flowing drawers filled with thousands of coupons, that can kind of put a damper on one's view of self worth. I work three jobs and I'm still a couple weeks behind on rent. When you're so poor you're scraping the gum off the bottom of your sneakers to melt and use as cocking for your leaky ceiling... the city and it's laugh-behind-your-back policies start to get to you.

I wish I could move to the snowy peaks of some mountain terrain or an uninhabited spit of island in Bermuda, and not have to deal with anything except spam mail and writer's block. Unfortunately you kind of have to be in your fifties and a billionaire with a Pulitzer sitting on your mantel to be able to pull that hermit writer shit. I don't have a trust fund and I did not write _To Kill a Mockingbird_.

I'm Shindou Shuichi, twenty years old, part time student, part time waiter, part time deliver boy, part time dairy product tester. Yes, that IS a real job. My mode of transportation is a skateboard, and I have negative three hundred yen in my bank account. Which is currently accumulating as I speak because who the fuck knows why banks charge you for NOT having money. I hate banks.

Though it's mainly my own fault for being broke off my ass in the first place, I guess. Instead of going to college after grad I took a year off and flew away on the first flight to New York, just me and my duffle bag. It's an amazing place but I believe it's in the Big Apple that I developed my hatred for cities. After all, I did get jumped by a five hundred pound Samoan.

I finished my first novel last January. Fifteen rejections later I have yet to find myself a publisher. Yup, it's juuuust a matter of time. Juuuust a matter of time before some intelligent individual finally comprehends the intricate sagacity of my plot and truly empathize with the character's provisional allusiveness juxtaposed with intense spiritual turmoil. At least that's what I keep telling myself. In the mean time, I need to go put on my redder-than-any-red-you've-ever-seen delivery uniform, and skate ten blocks. I don't actually need to adorn that wonderful little piece of communist China until I get to the store, however, having to juggle as many obligations as I do, even the best of my time managing efforts still result in me showing up late to everything. So I came up with the ingenious idea of wearing my uniform while traveling. I've never understood why people have such a great fear of skateboarders. I'd be skating along the sidewalk and they just part like the red sea. It's funny, the minute people hear wheels they immediately pull a matrix move and fly-leap across the road like I'm going to just come up and roll right on over them. When I'm wearing a delivery uniform that just further solidifies the idea that I've got places to go, and yes I will kick flip over your head if I need to. Nobody gets in the way of a delivery boy on a skateboard.

People. I hate people. Actually, I hate stupidity for that matter, but the two come hand in hand. And speaking of hating people who is there to greet me at the store but the person I hate the most.

"You're late, Shindou."

Aizawa Tachi. Claims he can crush a cinder block between his ass cheeks. Gayer than Richard Simmons' booty shorts and every member of N' sync combined, and not in the homosexual way. Has an IQ of 75. That's 5 points above official mental retardation.

I looked at my watch. "...One minute and thirty five seconds, Aizawa."

"Late is late is late."

"You know, not everyone's life-long dream is to become employee of the month at a pizza joint."

"Eat me."

"You wish."

And punctual as ever, our manager sticks his head out from the kitchen to deliver the daily threats of corporal and unusual punishment.

"Aizawa! Shindou! One more word from either of you and I'll make you both polish the toilets with your tongues!"

He never really means it though. Expect that one time when I set his toupee on fire... he made me engage in acts so unimaginably horrible that I refuse to speak of the incident. So don't make me.

"Yes sir, I wasn't trying to start no trouble, sir! Shindou was late, sir, I was just reminding him of company policy and the importance of arriving on time because there could be a delivery waiting for him, sir, and he could not make it in time and cause customer dissatisfaction, sir!"

Get what I'm saying now about how he's gay and stupid? The manager shoots us both a glare then pulls himself back to his business.

"Ass kisser."

"Butt plug."

... And so begins another usual Tuesday.

Tuesdays are the worst. You always think Monday is going to be the worst day of the week, but the truth is everything lands on you Tuesday, when you least expect it. Tuesday is the day I wished they hadn't cut government funding to cloning, and I could just whip up a couple of mes and send them off, one to deliver pizza, one to class, and one to smile at the assholes who complain about their salt being too salty and why the goddamn hell don't we serve bread at Chao's Cantonese Cuisine. Seriously, I don't know how I do it.

My phone rang while I was moping up the kitchen floor. There's only one person who calls me at absurd hours like nine in the morning. Actually, he's the only person who calls me besides my landlord, the bank, and televangelists. I put the phone up to my ear.

"Make it short, talk fast, and if this call lasts longer than a minute and a half I'm hanging up."

"Is that how you answer all your phone calls, Shuu, cause it's kinda rude."

"Seriously Hiro, I'm not allowed to talk at work, plus I'm roaming which means I'm paying for these minutes so spit it."

Hiro sits behind me in World Literature. Bright kid, kind heart, smells good and has nice hair. Currently my one and only friend in all of Japan.

"Okay, okay. What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"If I'm not working, I'm sleeping. Get to the point."

"I set you up for a blind date!"

"... Are you fucking serious."

Never mind, I take back that friend comment.

"I heard he was a really nice guy!"

"Nakano Hiroshi. There are only two types of people who go on blind dates. People who dated back when disco was hot and polyester was cool. And the people who are so desperate to get married that they honestly believe matchmakers dot com holds the secret to eternal love."

"I'm just trying to help you out. You're so tightly wound dude, you need to get laid."

"And you think that sending me on a blind date will accomplish that?"

"I just thought it'd be different, I mean, you're both guys so you'll both just want to skip the formalities and get to the -"

"I'm hanging up."

And I did. I'll see him in class tonight, so that's plenty of time for him to think up a proper apology.

Later on in this plain old usual Tuesday, I received a very unusual order. When I first got the address I kind of just fed it into my system without a second thought. That's right, years of servitude has turned me into a pizza delivering _machine_. However, when I found myself holding a medium cheese pizza standing at the back of a wholesale market... I knew something was wrong with this picture. I took the address out of my pocket and read it again, very carefully. I looked up at my surroundings. I looked down at the address again. I was at the right place.

Which meant someone had ordered a pizza to be delivered to the frozen foods storage unit of Costco.

... I swear. This city gets stranger and stranger everyday.

I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? Knock? Workers were zooming all around me, and nobody seemed particularly bothered by the fact that there was a pizza delivery boy standing in their midst. It took another couple of minutes of just standing around feeling stupid before I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and went in. And immediately wished I had worn another jacket.

So there I was, wandering around between large slabs of pork thigh and mounds of frozen carrots, probably trespassing and breaking some law, completely clueless as to what I was looking for. Strange things like this tend to happen to me. A lot. Could be some sort of cosmic sign. Like Jesus telling me to be wary of my choices because the items in my sin column are numbering dangerously high; a couple more faulty steps and I might not be good enough for purgatory anymore.

Back and to the left, somebody whistled. The kind of super-sonic shrill whistle that is needed in order to hail a cab in New York city. I whirled around, and from behind a steel rack I saw a cuff-linked wrist giving the 'come-hither' motion.

I rounded the corner... And came face to face with the devil himself.

I mean, if Satan existed, I believe the antichrist would look exactly like him.  
Impossibly beautiful; the ultimate epitome of sex.  
Not that I'm a fan or anything. Pop music hurts my brain and makes my internal organs move in ways they really shouldn't.

He lifted his chin, and gestured towards the pizza in my hand. "One order of medium cheese?"

Quick thoughts flashed by in the form of first impression schematics.

Brilliant. Sparkling. Dazzling.

And really, really blonde.

Like, ten times blonder than he looks on screen and in print.

Sitting on the floor, under a row of turkeys, in a full Armani suit complete with matching shoes, tie, and sunglasses, was the man who is second only to Michael Jackson in the number of people he can cause to faint/cry/go completely insane upon contact...

And my choice of greeting was, "...Are you sure you're allowed to be in here?"  


**To be continued.**

For you, you silly punk. Happy Valentines.


	2. Chapter 2

" … Are you sure you're allowed to be in here?"

He turned his head to the left, then rolled it to the right, as if he was just becoming aware of the fact that he was sitting in a freezer. "…I won't tell if you won't."

I'm sure it's some unspoken societal rule that you are required to laugh when a famous person tries to be funny. The ends of my mouth twitched and curled awkwardly, but didn't quite make it into a smile.

He reached inside his coat and pulled out a box of parliament ultra lights. Now that tickled me. Who would have thought that the five-time winner of Tokyo Times' Manliest Man in all of Mandom smoked chick sticks? I mean, I was one gay bitch when I was going through my flamboyant homo slut phase (no seriously, I had pink hair) and even I didn't smoke lights.

"Ar' ya cold?" He mumbled through the recessed-filter-but-you-just-end-up-smoking-a-million-of-them ultra light between his teeth, as he patted himself down for a lighter.

"…A little."

"Then you should probably give me my pizza, Shuichi."

I didn't exactly slap my hands to the side of my face a la Macaulay Culkin and screamed out "how the shit do you know my name!", but the expression on my face must have reflected just that. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and pointed it at my chest.

…… Right. Name tag.  
... Right.

"My apologies, Yuki-san. The hanging pork was distracting. As is the temperature and my poorly manufactured shirt."

He pulled one of those superstar moves where they drop their head down to that perfect angle, allowing the eyes to become slightly visible just above the rim of the glasses. That stereotypical over-used utterly sleazy unbelievably sexy let me bamboozle you with my piercing gaze of famous-person-essence move.

Did I say sexy? I meant narcissistic.

"So you do know me. I was beginning to wonder if my publicist was lying about my face being the most recognizable in Tokyo."

"Of course I know you. Costco employees in charge of stocking don't earn enough to be able to afford the nose job and face lifts needed to become 'the most recognizable face in Tokyo'. Plus, that fifty foot billboard of you outside of Ueno Park is kind of hard to miss."

He stared at me. Then stated with vague intrigue, "What a roundabout way of complimenting someone."

"…That'll be four hundred and fifty three yen, please."

He proceeded to hand me the biggest bill I've ever seen in my life and told me to keep the change.

Rich people. I HATE rich people. I know I'm just as desperate for charity as the crazy homeless guys down by the subway, but that doesn't mean I can't still be bitter towards people who have the ability to tip two hundred percent. I stuffed the bill into my pocket and turned. After a couple of dead ends I finally found the door again. Thank god, I was beginning to really…

Oh, you've got to be KIDDING me!

I rounded the corners as fast as I could until I came upon the pop star on the floor chewing pizza sipping beer and puffing what appears to be his second cigarette. He didn't seem all that surprised by my reappearance.

"Um. Excuse me."

"Yes?"

"Is there… like, a back door out of here?"

"Why, what's wrong with the front door?"

"It uh, won't open."

"You know, I've always wondered why freezers only have one way doors. What if someone got locked in?"

Somebody needs to tell that guy he's not funny. If I don't get back to the store within the next half hour, I'm fired.

He lifted the pizza box. "Want some? There's beer behind me, second shelf."

I am so, so fired.

I dug out my cell phone only to realize that I have no idea who I should call and what I should say. Hello 911, I got locked into a refrigerating unit while making a delivery?

"Don't bother, you can't get any reception here."

"What the hell are we suppose to do then?"

"It's not that bad. We have pizza. And drinks. And all this frozen stuff. It's kind of cool, isn't it?"

"...You're not funny."

He smiled. Then he took off his jacket and handed it to me. At that moment I was basically living the wet dream of every single teenage girl this side of the globe: trapped alone in an enclosed space with Yuki Eiri. Who just offered me a piece of his clothing.

…Too bad I'm not into blond guys. Even though he does have a really nice smile. And a really nice voice. And a really nice body. And I really have to stop staring at him. I took his jacket with a quick 'thanks', and slipped it on. Then I just sort of stood there. There was a period of silence.

"Not going to sit down?"

"No, I'm fine right here. The floor's cold."

"Suit yourself."

There was another period of silence.

"…… So… what exactly were you doing in here?"

"Skipping work."

"Oh."

"Want a butt? It'll warm you up."

"No thanks. I've quit."

He took a long drag, then blew the smoke my way. "Good for you."

Must not stare.  
Must not stare.  
Must **stop staring**.

"You're one of those emo-indie kids, huh."

"First off, emo and indie are two completely different genres. Second, I am not one of those 'emo-indie kids', whatever that derogatory comment was suppose to imply."

"You just seem very hostile towards me." For whatever reason, he had a smug smile on his face. One look at that and I could no longer control what was coming out of my mouth.

"I just think people should be admired and loved for their talent. Not for superficial qualities like how good they look half naked on the cover of a gossip magazine."

He cocked up an eyebrow, the smile still there. "You think I have no talent."

"Pop stars like you are simply a product of your label. You don't write your own music, your biggest asset is your face, and most of you can't even sing without a back-up track. You're nothing but pre-packaged goods. There's not a single aspect of your 'work' that is original or worth any true artistic value."

The smile was gone, and it was replaced by something that looked much more… devious. And it finally hit me that I just totally insulted the most famous person in Japan. Shit. I hope he doesn't sue me. More so, I hope he doesn't beat me up. Even more so, I hope he doesn't have connections with the mob and get _them_ to beat me up.

Just when I was contemplating whether or not it would even be worth it to try and take back what I said, there was a loud boom that sounded alarmingly similar to an explosion. The ground shook, the hanging meat swayed, and frozen cans toppled. Through the misty condensation I could make out the form of a tall figure walking towards us.

Is that…  
Is that a _bazooka_?

"AHA! Found you! Gotcha! Game over! You've been a bad boy, haven't you! Do you know what happens to bad bo …Eh? Who is this little fella? And why is he wearing your jacket? GAAASP! You've- You've hired one of those boy prostitutes, haven't you! Jesus Mary and Christ this is going to be terrible publicity; I hope you're ready to do some hard-core cover up! You see? You see what happens when you play hooky! Bad publicity, that's what happens!"

"Good job. You found me. Now turn around and count to one thousand again."

"Oh ho ho, I think _NOT._ You fooled me once, but you won't fool me again! I'm locking you into the recording studio for as long as it takes."

"I haven't slept in two days, K. I think I deserve a break."

"And you've just had one. Now let's go make us a hit single!"

Hereally is carrying a bazooka. A real mother fuggin' bazooka.  
Are those things even legal for use outside of the military?

"Fine. Let's go. I'm not guaranteeing anything, though."

"What about the prostitute?"

"He's not a prostitute, moron. He's the pizza boy."

"Pizza boy. You ordered pizza."

"I was hungry."

And they went on for a while, completely forgoing my existence. I didn't particularly mind; this whole situation was getting a little too twilight-zoney for me. I vaguely remember being thanked for my troubles, and being offered a ride. But I must have declined it because shortly after I found myself back on my little delivery scooter wondering what the hell just happened and why the hell I passed up on the chance to ride in a limo.

I didn't bother telling anyone what really happened. I figured my manager would most likely accuse me of getting really high and hallucinating everything. As the day went on I began to wonder if there was something weird in last night's meatloaf and it indeed caused me to hallucinate everything. The rest of the afternoon carried on fairly smoothly and by the time I was getting ready for my night shift at Chao's, I had pretty much forgotten the whole encounter.

That was until… about eight o'clock that evening. When God once again demonstrated his unfailing desire to see me suffer.

I was opening a bottle of cabernet for some rich yuppie couple when the entire restaurant went up in a frenzy. Everyone was craning necks, people were dropping things everywhere, and all the waitresses were doing that silent scream thing. The next second my manager had grabbed me by the arm and yanked me aside with more force than necessary. The plump balding man sneered into my ear with his barely understandable Chinese accent. "You, you leesen! Wataheva you do, you no scwoo up! You heea? You scwoo up, I fiya you!"

Then, I was unceremoniously shoved in front of a corner table.

Yuki Eiri looked up from his menu.

"Ah. What a coincidence."

...I found it very hard to believe that this was a coincidence. Might have something to do with the fact that he was wearing that smug grin again. I adjusted my tie with a nervous cough.

"Good evening. Could I interest you in something from the bar?"

"Jack on the rocks. Please."

Well. _Someone's_ in a hurry to get wasted. I could smell the rich alcoholic self-righteousness permeating along with his expensive cologne. All I could hear on the way to the bar was:

"It's him it's him ohmigod it's really him!"

"This is so crazy! We're like, in the same room!"

"Kyaaaa! I can't believe this!"

"God I could die right now, no regrets!"

"Why the hell does Shindou get to wait his table? He's not even sitting in Shindou's section!"

"I heard he was requested! Maybe they're friends?"

"No. WAY. Shindou knows Yuki Eiri?"

I got out of there before the waitresses could bomb rush me. Technically I do know him, if by knowing they mean trapped in the back of Costco for ten painfully awkward minutes. I brought him the Jack, and he took his damn time with it. In fact, he took his damn time with his whole damn meal, torturing me with constant small talk.

"You go to school?"

Involuntary cough. "Yah, night school."

"You're a busy boy, aren't you, Shuichi."

More coughing followed by tie loosening. "We just met. I'd rather you call me Shindou."

"Something wrong with your throat?"

"Probably a cold. You know, from earlier today."

"Shouldn't you be home resting, then?"

"I have bills to pay. Some of them are from three months ago."

I was getting more and more uneasy with each bite he took. It seemed like any minute now an army of lawyers along with complimentary paparazzi would storm in to deliver me the lawsuit of the century. That had to be the reason he 'coincidentally' showed up at the restaurant where I worked, and 'coincidentally' requested me to be his waiter. I patiently awaited my fate.

He was almost done with his desert, and still, no storming army. The next time I came by, he was thanking the manager. A nod and a smile later, he was gone. Leaving in his wake a lot of disappointed waitresses. While my manager congratulated me on 'not scwooing up', I held my breath and opened the checkbook. Lying on top of the cash, were two concert tickets. And a note.

_Isabella live house, Saturday night. So you can make a more accurate assessment of my "talents".  
__  
Y. Eiri _

_P.S: You looked cute in that waiter outfit. _

**  
To be continued.**


End file.
